


and then there's this guy

by highschoolmusical2



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, M/M, Stridercest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:29:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highschoolmusical2/pseuds/highschoolmusical2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk/Dave summer camp au</p>
            </blockquote>





	and then there's this guy

“Sup.”  
  
Fuck no. There’s no way this guy’s serious. I mean, it’s all just gone to apeshit, gone fucking wayside bananas if what you think is happening, is happening. You were not shipped off to summer camp to be shoved in a cabin with a bunch of egotistical teenage dirtbags, least of all one who’s got the gall to be side-eyeing you while simultaneously ripping off your style.  
But here he is, looking up from that brick of a book, looking to be about  _philosophy_ of all insufferable personality indicators, asking how you’re doing. You've read  _The Cave,_ you're not ready to roleplay like you're livin' it up in Athens with him.   
  
So alright, there are enough differences between this surprise clone and yourself to ward off full on insanity, but you think you’re definitely on the verge of being a little thrown off. But not so thrown off that a rebound isn’t already in the works, the backboard just getting slammed with your ability to cope with this cheap bootleg of a doppelganger.  
For one thing, there’s no way in hell you’d trade in your aviators for the geometric mess he’s sporting on his face. Those sharp corners are practically lethal, you’d say. If it hadn’t already been said for you. In a way you’re sort of glad his oddness is buffering some of the inevitable sunglasses comments you get whenever people find out you don’t really do the taking them off thing. Which, of fucking course, he does as well.  
And it wasn’t just the shades thing that bugged you, although that was definitely smack dab at the top of the list, but the other small similarities all added up. You're both scrawny, and very much freckled, though his dotted complexion blends with his tanned, darker skin much better. To make matters worse, he’s got the beginnings of a muscular psyche, while you still have a bit of baby fat. A counselor had even mistaken him for your older brother, which really soured your first day. You're a little taller than him, for chrissakes. God, your names even both start with a D, four letters, one syllable. It’s like some shitty sitcom, or even worse, some contrived webcomic. Look at these two assholes who are so alike, but oh, not quite.   
  
You're both blondes, although he spikes his more brassy coloured hair up like he thinks he’s some goddamn anime character, and coupled with the shades, he looks the part. You wonder how much space in his suitcase is dedicated to hair product. It’s already been a week and he’s still going strong. Every morning you make a point of crinkling your nose as he steps past you out of the dilapidated camp washroom (thank god it's not an outhouse), even though the scent of his hair care regime was hardly noticeable, and not actually unpleasant. You were a bit of a purveyor of chemicals, and you'd cataloged the scent in your brain next to the stronger formaldehyde and darkroom developer. It leaned more towards the latter, both were more metallic, whereas the earthiness of the corpse preserver was something you'd been getting enough of in an incomplete and unsatisfying way due to your unfortunate location. Fresh air was doing you dirty, and you missed a flat surface that wasn't a fucking picnic table.   
  
“Not much.” You shrug in response and begin climbing up onto the top of the bunk. Of course the sunglasses duo got stuck together. Because what’s more sidesplittingly hilarious than that? Real comedians, your cabinmates are.   
  
You rummage through the sleeping bag and various other items you’d squirreled away up on your bunk (like you were leaving your shit out for him to find. He’d already dismantled a kid’s phone, put it back together again, and claimed that he’d ‘improved’ it.)   
Adding to the weirdo factor, was that he was up earlier than all the other kids. You’d asked him what was up with that on a whim, and he’d told you he didn't want to wait for the showers. This made sense, considering what a hassle it was when thirty something guys were clamoring around in the small area, fucking around and squeezing toothpaste into each other’s hair, being goddamn animals this unmaintained zoo. But as you discovered two nights ago, the guy was getting up at an ungodly hour to get to his ablutions. How fucking long does he need to shower for? Freak was probably beating off in there, alone in the showers at 5 am. You’d understand where he was coming from though, having been hands off for your duration here. But dammit, keep it in your pants dude, you don’t see the rest of us waking up before the sun’s even risen to rub one out like a bunch of horny jerkin’ vampires.  
  
After a while his twangy southern drawl floats up to you, “Lookin’ for something?”  
  
“Yeah.” You don’t offer him an explanation, continuing to search for your notebook. A divine ray of inspiration has shone through your mind, and you need to write this choice rhyme down before you forget half of it and it becomes second rate bullshit. Not even first rate bullshit, which you can totally roll with, turn it into something worth its salt. Think of the whole 'so bad it's good because you're obviously not being genuine and you can pretend it's commentary or whatever' thing. Yeah. Where the fuck is that stupid notebook? You take it back, it's not a stupid notebook, you'll never call it that again if you could just find-  
  
“What is it?” He presses, and you lean over the side of the bunk to look at him, shaded gaze meeting shaded gaze. You look at him for a few moments.  
  
“None of your damn business.” Your head goes back up, and you dejectedly look through your shit one last time before falling onto your back in a huff, shitty bedsprings creaking.  
  
Where the hell did you leave that thing? Maybe in the mess hall, on the splinter inducing table? Or maybe you’d dropped it on that shitty, rainy hike. The possibility makes your stomach clench. No, no, no, fuck, you’d put a lot of time into that thing, and sure, most of those messy scrawls were half assed ideas and incomplete thoughts, but you’d struck gold a few times, and it you’d never be able to perfectly replicate all that you’d created.  
Silently mourning your loss, you don’t register the whine of the bed, or the clinking of strained metal rungs, until a spiked blonde head pops up by your feet. Startled, you sit up quickly. What the hell was his damage? You don’t remember sending out an invite to the temporary pad you were rocking up here. Sure, you'd ducked your head down a few moments before, but that's just how it is with bunk bed politics.   
  
“Dude. You need something?’ You let annoyance creep into your voice.  
  
He’d kept up the stoic, disinterested façade much longer than you had, and his perfection in the art had discouraged you from holding it up with effort any longer. At least, you think it’s a façade. Or maybe he doesn’t give a shit about anything. Jealousy surges up in the face of his genuine composure and placidity, before you tell yourself that anything that distanced you from being like him was definitely a plus.  
  
“Not anymore.” A fingerless leather glove clad hand raises up to toss something in your lap.  
  
You flinch, raising your arms in a defensive stance, to look down and see a familiar, battered notebook on your legs.  
  
So, okay, maybe you freak out a little bit.  
  
“What the actual fuck?” Quickly snatching up the notebook, you shoot an accusing glare at him.  
  
Your mind is running a mile a minute, trying to remember the things you’ve wrote, what parts he’s seen of you, and the embarrassment floods in, your cheeks already warming. Knowing you look like a fucking blushing baby just pisses you off even more on top of the fact this dude shoved his big, pointy nose into your business.  
  
You practically spit out the question, “What the hell is wrong with you, that makes you think it’s okay to look through other people’s shit?”  
  
Dirk remains calm in the face of your rage, of course, because he’s just always unfazed. You’d be impressed if it wasn’t so goddamn irritating, and if it wasn’t a response to your anger. He should be the one who’s embarrassed, not you. He was the one getting caught sticking his fingers in the cookie jar, and this was the part where he was supposed to apologize profusely and feel shitty and exposed, like how you feel right now. God, had he read the whole entire thing? You don’t even want to know what he thinks of you. Or worse, what if he really doesn’t give two shits?  
  
He folds his arms and rests them on the mattress, “I didn’t know you wrote poems.”  
  
You sputter, “T-they’re not poems. They’re lyrics.” Totally different things. You can’t believe he’d even compare them.  
  
“Usually I’d agree and say that the two terms aren’t easily interchanged, but you toed the line a lotta times in there.”  
  
What the hell is that supposed to mean? You furrow your eyebrows further, “Why the hell did you take it.”  
  
“They’re pretty good.” He says.  
  
“What?”  
  
“The poe- lyrics. Some stuff was pretty sketchy, but you’ve obviously got a talent for it. There was even some pretty good metaphysical conceit in there, I was impressed. “, Dirk says as he scratches his chin complacently.  
  
“Yeah, I’m just all about that thing you just said.” You deadpan back.  
  
Why does he think you’d care about his opinion on your work? Because you don’t. Of all the things you care about, that would be the furthest from said stuff. It’s not even chilling in the stratosphere anymore, nevermind the troposphere. Aaand it just flew outta the mesosphere. What a pretentious asshole. Did he really think you’d excuse his little stunt because he thought your work was good? Because he called you talented? Because _Dirk_ was _impressed_? Sure, it did make you feel like your chest was swelling and buzzing and filling up with light, but it must be because he’s the first to see all your stuff, even the not so great stuff. And his inexpressive nature bending to show approval for you is a little overwhelming, you guess. Maybe. Just a little. You're more focused on the unease and annoyance you feel, looking at his frustratingly blank face.  
   
“Yeah, well, it’s some quality stuff.” He reaffirms his approval, but you don’t really care. Not really. Not even a little bit. The question at hand still hasn’t been answered.   
  
“You still didn’t tell me why you thought it’d be all fine and dandy for you to invade my privacy. Did you just decide to go on a scavenger hunt through my stuff, see what looks the most personally compromising?” You ask.  
  
He sounds slightly annoyed, as if the answer was simple and you were being difficult, “I found it on the floor. Didn’t have your name on it, and I knew if I asked anyone in here if they had lost a journal, it’d be a prime opportunity for someone to get their snoop on. So I read it for long enough to realize it must be you, and when you started looking for something, it paired up pretty well with my conjecture."  
What.  
Bullshit, he did not read your lyrics for your sake; he was just being a thirsty little jackass, wanting to get in on the goods.  
Also, ‘realizing’ it was yours? He doesn’t even know you; it’s only been a week since you had the misfortune of meeting him, goddammit. Wait, was that supposed to be a compliment? Was he saying that you obviously were the only possible author out of the rest of the guys, that your talent was so damn apparent that it was emanating off you like stank out of a subway vent-shaft?  
Or maybe you’d written a thing or two about your shades, which may have been a dead giveaway.  
  
“It’s not a journal.” You finally say, correcting him.  
  
He just gives a you little half smile, a quick, almost imperceptible quirk of the lips, and begins going down the ladder.  
  
He says something about going out to find the counselor, but you’re not really paying attention to his words. You watch him leave, clutching the notebook to your chest.  
His gait is relaxed, but he walks quickly, not wasting any time. He doesn't look back at you as he closes the cabin door.  
As your fingers curl around the metal loops of the notebook, you finally exhale. Curiously, you idly wonder what he wants with the counselor, having registered part of his words, but it’s not really that big of a concern to you. The more pressing matter at hand is the fact that you can’t get the image of his barely-even-a-smile out of your mind, and the frantic pace of your heart.  
You hope he does it again. Smile, that is. The fucker can keep his dumb gloves off your stuff.


End file.
